Chapter Text
Ed is seated in the luxury viewing room, high above the field of the multi-million dollar rugby stadium. From here, he can watch the hopeful recruits scatter about the field like little ants, eagerly awaiting their opportunity to be rejected. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows reveal a perfect view of the players below, but it’s currently wasted on Ed.
He has absolutely no interest in watching a bunch of amateur nobodies get their souls crushed for yet another week of open tryouts. Ed has complained, loudly and often, about having to be present for the pageantry every year; after all, with Coach Edward Teach at the helm, does it really matter who the players are? The league has given him so much fuck-off money anyway that as long as they supply him with bodies, the team is guaranteed to go to play-offs every year.
Still, it’s part of his contract that he be present for the open tryouts. And for every practice. And for every game. And so on and so forth forever and ever until death do we part.
“Of course you’ll be there! We can’t waste an ounce of that Edward Teach magic!” the league commissioner had crowed at the last negotiation meeting. Ed had asked for an additional $500k to be added to his salary as recompense for putting up with that particular blow-hard, but in this moment it doesn’t feel like enough.
Ed pulls out his phone, opens up Youtube to watch the latest video from Ask A Mortician, and tunes out the sounds of Izzy running the potential players through their paces. He knows the reaction Izzy gets as his assistant coach - the man’s voice strikes terror in the hearts of the young men - but by this point in their relationship Izzy’s voice might as well be white noise.
The American Rugby League was not exactly what Ed had envisioned for his post-retirement future. He’d played for the All Blacks, won a record three World Cups, inspired a whole generation of young Māori players, yadda yadda yadda. To tell the truth, Ed hadn’t ever thought much beyond the game. Sure, he saw other players make the transition off the field to become commentators and pundits, motivational speakers, or just professional fuck boys. He never saw himself doing any of that. Ed Teach in a suit, talking into a camera as if he knows what the fuck he’s saying? Nah. So he just kept playing, ignoring his management team’s concerns about “future estate planning” and “networking.” What the fuck did he need to plan for? He was Ed Teach, and he was a fucking rugby legend.
Until the Japan World Cup, when his teammate CJ threw him the fucked-up hospital pass that tore Ed’s ACL and forced his early retirement. By the time he could actually walk again, the team had moved on to younger, fresher players. His friends were all gone in the wind, and he was alone. The invitations to the post-game celebrations stopped coming, no starlets hung around his usual spots, no more free merchandise showed up at his house just because. Sure, there also weren’t any coaches yelling at him and telling him what to do, what to eat, and what to say. No more interviewers badgering him with “gotcha” questions, trying to place the loss squarely on his shoulders as if there weren’t over a dozen other players on the field. He told himself it was worth it and said good riddance to the teammates that never appreciated him while they had him. Who needs starlets and sponsorships and free shit? Not Ed Teach!
But then a year went by, and it got harder to believe that it was worth it. The loneliness got heavier, and his mood got blacker, and even Izzy stopped taking his calls.
So, when the American Rugby League came calling, it didn’t seem to matter so much that coaching had never been his dream. A team was a team, right? Who cares that it was in a country he had absolutely no connection to, coaching players who were in diapers while he’d been snorting coke in one club or another. Now he had a crew of players, coaches, and managers who hung on his every fucking word, his legacy was intact, and the media still requested interviews as if they gave a damn.
There was nothing he could possibly complain about.
Except that he was so fucking bored he thought maybe he should have stayed in New Zealand and let the loneliness swallow him up until he became a ghost, haunting the team that used to love him but now had no need for him.
As usual, the moment his thoughts took a dark turn, Izzy swept into the room.
“You gonna join us any time today, boss?”
“Isn’t that what I have you for?” Ed waves his hand in the general direction of the window.
“Come on, Edward, at least pretend to care about the new season.”
“What’s the point? Every season is the same. We fill the holes left by the old players. We train up the new ones. We win. We go to the playoffs. We go home. It’s so fucking boring.”
“There’s a couple of new ones that look promising,” Izzy continues as if Ed hasn’t spoken at all. “Francis, he’s a bit green but supposedly can kick a 90 meter field goal. Management wants us to ensure the backline is stronger this season, and I’ve got some ideas that might work if he’s as good as they say…”
Izzy drones on about projections and statistics, and it’s all so fucking boring. Ed turns his gaze to the pitch below, hoping Izzy will tire himself out if Ed ignores him long enough. He catches a flash of pink on the field, like an eagle spotting a salmon from a mile above the river. He sits forward, his boredom temporarily forgotten.
“Who’s that?” Ed points to the unfamiliar player. He has yellow hair, almost gingery, styled in waves that evoke the old movies Ed’s mum used to watch on their black and white television. He’s currently bouncing from one foot to the other, waiting for his turn at a drill. Ed has to lean forward even further and squint a bit to get a clear look at the man’s face, but he’s surprised to see what appear to be more wrinkles around his eyes than Ed is used to seeing on rookies. It’s hard to tell from up in the viewing room, but he seems to be at least forty. Ed’s honestly never seen anything like him. The man twirls around, and Ed sees his jersey has the name “Bonnet” printed on the back.
Izzy makes a sound that Ed knows means if they were on an actual field, he’d be spitting. “Some fucking fancy rich man having a mid-life crisis. Completely delusional. Don’t worry about it. Now, Francis over there-”
“Shut up about the kicker for one fucking minute, Iz!” Ed tugs at his hair, frustrated. He doesn’t understand why Izzy’s words make him so angry, but suddenly he’s full of rage. “Can’t you just- come on, we both know we’re going to make an offer to the kicker. And we’ll probably take on that massive fucker, the one with the neck tattoo. I’m asking you to think about something different for a change. Look at that guy, aren’t you curious at all why he’s out there? Who he is?”
“Why, are we going to let him on the team? Maybe make him team captain?” Izzy drawls. “Have the waterboy bring out a crystal goblet for the ponce? Don’t be ridiculous, boss. Even if he wasn’t fucking ancient-”
“Hey! We’re not exactly young ourselves, Iz-”
“As I was saying,” Izzy cuts him off with a raised hand. “Even if he were twenty years younger, he’s still a moron in a jersey that he bought with daddy’s money. He’s nothing, Edward, and you can’t get distracted by some idiot who is going to run away screaming at the first tackle.”
Ed’s anger deflates as quickly as it came. Izzy’s right, and he knows it. The man down on the pitch is clearly delusional. It’s honestly shocking he’s lasted this long, and it’s likely Bonnet will be gone by lunch. Ed tells himself to focus on the kicker, on the upcoming rugby season, but somehow his eyes keep returning to the flash of ridiculous cherry-blossom pink.
-*-
Earlier that morning
Stede breathes deeply in through his nose and lets the air escape slowly from his lips. He makes eye contact with the handsome man in the mirror, decides he could use a bit of a pep talk. “Look at you! You are ready for this! You are strong. You are capable. You will make friends today…” He falters a bit, unsure what else is missing. He has been preparing for today for a year now, ever since he missed the trials last August. He’s got everything he needs; his mouthguard is tucked safely into his pocket, he’s gotten down to an eight-minute mile on the track, and he’s developed quite a good amount of muscle definition, if his calves are anything to go by. He should be more than confident about his chances today, but there’s a knot of anxiety somewhere behind his navel.
Stede decides to end the affirmation exercise before his tightly-wound self-esteem unravels. He allows one last nod at his reflection before exiting the bedroom suite and heading to the kitchen. There’s evidence of a busy morning; a knife with peanut butter still smeared on it, discarded school calendars detailing the day’s lunch menu, and a half-drunk glass of milk. Stede swivels his head around the area, searching for his family.
“Mary? Alma? Louis?” He calls. He hears a muffled sound from the parlor and makes his way down the hall. “I’m off for the big day! Wish me luck! Fingers crossed, the next time you see me I’ll be wearing an official Pirate’s jersey!”
He steps into the room, arms open wide. Instead of his wife and children, Stede is greeted by Kelly, their part-time housekeeper. Stede frowns. “Kelly? What are you doing here? I thought your shift doesn’t begin until noon!”
The older woman shakes her head. “No, Mr. Bonnet, that was when Louis was in preschool. To allow for the afternoon naps, remember? Mrs. Bonnet said the white noise of the vacuum helped him sleep longer.”
Stede does vaguely remember something about Louis being a fussy sleeper, or perhaps that was Alma. Anyway, both children have long since stopped taking naps, he’s almost positive; after all, Louis is in middle school now, and Alma just began high school. Surely he would have noticed if Kelly’s schedule had changed somewhere in there? He had hoped to be sent off with the well-wishes of his adoring family, waving to him from the front door as he set off for his big adventure. Perhaps Mary would have taken a picture of them all for posterity. Stede claps his hands, deciding not to let this hiccup disrupt his vision.
“Yes, well, anyway,” he tells Kelly, who is now spraying wood cleaner on the credenza, “I’m off! Big day, you know, it’s the open tryouts for the Pirate’s Rugby team! That’s how they found the team captain, do you remember? Ivan Malik, just plucked from obscurity at the open tryouts! Ivan Malik! You never know, anyone could be a rugby star! And today’s my chance! Showing up is half the battle, isn’t that what they always say?”
Kelly puts down the rag and turns on the vacuum. “Have a nice day, Mr. Bonnet!” she shouts.
Stede hesitantly makes his way to the garage entrance, picking up his gear bag that he’d left on the steps leading down to the cars. The script for the morning has gone all wrong, and it leaves him feeling off balance. For a moment, he considers dropping the duffel back on the concrete and retreating to his room, forgetting all this silly nonsense. Who is he kidding? He’s a 45-year-old man who never outgrew his childhood fantasies. As he turns to go, a poster tacked on the wall catches his eye. It’s pinned next to the winter supplies, slightly covered by a pair of skis. Stede had placed it there when they’d moved into this house, a holdover from his bachelor days, from his dorm room at college. The corners are torn and faded from being taken down and put up so many times. Mary had forbidden him from displaying the poster inside the house, reasoning that old sports posters are not the aesthetic for their refurbished mid-century craftsman. While Stede does have to agree that the styles would be dissonant, he could never truly get rid of the poster that had followed him everywhere for the last twenty-five years.
The poster is a black and white photograph of rugby legend Edward Teach. The background is an unimportant blur, fading to highlight the force that is Teach. He is mid-run, a thick quadricep drawn up nearly to his chest. His torso is twisted, cradling a rugby ball in his arm like a dragon clutching a precious golden egg.
The photographer had managed to capture the once-in-a-lifetime moment during the 1995 World Cup in South Africa. It was Teach’s very first championship, the moment the entire world witnessed the birth of a legend. At the time, no one had believed in the skinny young rookie with long hair and an almost laughable attempt at a beard, but Stede had known from the minute the match began: Teach was something special. In that game, twenty year old Edward Teach had stolen the ball from the undefeated South Africa team, dodged an army of opponents, and bulldozed every single man on the field. He’d left a trail of bodies behind to score the winning try, cementing Aotearoa’s place on the world stage.
Stede remembers watching that game from his college dorm room with the other students. His father had moved them to the United States by then, and while his fellow classmates didn’t quite share his enthusiasm for the All Blacks’ win, they could recognize a history-changing game when they saw it. It was the one time during university that Stede felt he’d belonged, swept up in the jubilation of his peers.
Seeing Edward Teach’s fierce, determined face on his garage wall set Stede back on his course. So what if he was a little old to begin rugby? Everyone doubted Edward Teach when he began too, didn’t they? And now look at him, immortalized on Stede’s poster. Stede fires off a salute at his hero, gets in his car, and drives to the stadium.
An hour later Stede’s zeal has only grown as he finds himself lined up among the other hopefuls. The practice arena is massive, with artificial turf underfoot and bright lights shining overhead. Stede still dreams of one day playing on the real pitch, the one where the real matches are played, out on the grass with thousands of adoring fans screaming his name.
There are a surprising number of men here for the tryouts, people of all different shapes and sizes. He tries to make eye contact with the others, but only succeeds catching the attention of a pale gentleman who sports a dissonant hairstyle of a bald scalp with long greasy hair. The man glares, pulls his lips back to show a rather aggressive mouthguard that appears - rather frighteningly - to be made of metal rather than silicone.
Stede decides to find an ally in line and looks around for a friendly face. He tries out a smile on a man with impressively broad shoulders and a strong jaw neatly lined with a chinstrap beard.
“Good morning!”
“Hey, how goes it?” the man replies.
Thrilled at the encouraging response, Stede thrusts out his hand. “Stede Bonnet! And you are?”
“Jonah,” he replies, but their introduction is cut short when the assistant coach approaches them on the field, slowly sauntering in like a king.
“Good morning, ladies,” he says, his voice impossibly harsh and quiet at the same time. “Gotta make sure you’re all registered, so we’re gonna go down the line and make sure you had the basic intelligence to put your name down on a form before coming.”
“That’s assistant coach Israel Hands,” Stede whispers helpfully, in case Jonah hasn’t done his research. “Did you know he followed Coach Teach all the way here from New Zealand? Which happens to be my home country as well! What a funny coincidence, don’t you think?”
Stede is prevented from further expounding to his new friend, as assistant Coach Hands stomps over into his space, planting himself firmly in front of Stede.
“And what the fuck do you think you’re wearing?” he snaps.
Stede glances down at his kit. The shirt is one of his favorites, a souvenir from Japan’s World Cup. He’d chosen it not because of loyalty (he rather prefers the All Blacks, of course), but rather for the color scheme: three fuchsia sakura flowers dancing over a light pink background, the motto “Brave Blossoms” embroidered below. He’s particularly proud of his shorts He found them online and had them specially tailored. They’re flocked with more cherry blossoms scattered over a field of solid sea green. He’d been delighted when he’d found the matching knee socks! His boots are the same fuchsia as the jersey, with the Canterbury brand’s kiwi bird logo silhouetted in mint - a cheeky nod to his motherland.
“No need to fret,” Stede reassures the scowling man. “They’re made out of sturdy canvas, see?” He gives the shorts a good yank to demonstrate. “Sure to hold up in the scrum.”
Assistant Coach Hands barks out a laugh. “You think you’re going to be in a scrum?”
“Well, yes,” Stede sniffs. He knows he shouldn’t antagonize the assistant coach, who really does have almost as much power over his future as the elusive Coach Teach, but something about this man just gets his goose. “If I’m to be your star hooker, I should think I’m going to be in a scrum or two.”
Hands gapes up at him. “Oh, I see now. You’re not just an old man. You’re a madman, too.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m only a few years older than Diego Ormaechea was when he played in the world cup! As captain, in fact!”
“Comparing yourself to Ormaechea,” Coach Hands spits, “is like comparing a lion to the pile of shit it leaves behind. But if you want to make a fool of yourself here, be my guest. Just know that I’ve seen plenty of old men like you follow their delusions, and it usually ends in an ambulance.”
He turns on his heel and stalks away from Stede, moving on to the next player. Jonah and the man on Stede’s left take a step back, as if standing next to Stede will earn them a dressing down as well. While Stede regrets the dissolution of a possible alliance, he resolves to not let it get to him; honestly, Assistant Coach Hands’ remarks don’t bother him too much. He’s used to being dismissed; although after 40 years of it he still doesn’t understand why. Why do people take one look at him and assume he’s useless? He’s studied the player statistics, knows his height and build are pretty standard for a forward position like hooker. His body type isn’t that different from the professionals - even his age doesn’t necessarily have to be an obstacle. Like he told Hands, there have been older players before (although perhaps those older men didn’t begin in their forties…).
Why, then, do people scoff in disbelief when he tells them his dreams? Is there an invisible sign over his head that says weakling in bold letters?
His father had been the first to see his apparent failings when Stede was a child. When he was six, Stede had asked his father to pass a ball back and forth in the garden. He’d heard about other fathers and sons spending time this way, seen other boys do this as easily as breathing. Perhaps the simple rhythm of throw-and-catch, throw-and catch would build a bridge between Stede and this cold, stern man.
The speed and strength with which the ball hurtled towards him was a shock, almost as if his father had thrown a bomb rather than a rugby ball, and Stede forgot to raise his hands. With nothing to stop the momentum, the ball smashed into his face, and the amount of blood that spurted from his nose was terrifying. Convinced that his nose was gone completely, Stede had wailed as if he were dying.
“Should have known,” his father had said. “Just a weak-hearted, soft-handed, lily-livered little rich boy.” He left Stede in the yard and stomped back into the house.
By age nine, Stede had mostly given up on winning his father over. Instead, he turned his sights to his peers. He had seen the boys on the playground, running back and forth, making plays without speaking, almost as if they shared a secret, unspoken language. Stede asked his mother if he could join the junior rugby league, maybe have a private lesson or two so he would know how to move his body like the other boys.
“Oh, Stede. You’re just so delicate. Fragile,” she had explained, “like a new blossom in the springtime. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
And yet Stede had learned that the hurt would come either way, whether it was on a rugby field or in a classroom.
Today was his day, even though he’d never actually been on a real rugby field; not as a player anyway. Never been in a scrum, or participated in a tackle, even. Still, Stede has been watching rugby since he was an infant. It had been impossible to avoid the sport growing up in Aotearoa. His country’s team, the All Blacks, are now and always have been the most successful team in Rugby World Cup’s history. And their most legendary captain ever, Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, was the undeniable key to their victories. Stede can’t help but see it as an omen; that somehow, Stede Bonnet and Edward Teach have both ended up in this city, in this practice stadium on this day. If that’s not a sign, then what is?
A good omen, that is, despite the rumors that Coach Teach is either a recluse or a prima donna who almost never shows up to practice, never speaks to his own players, and only attends the games to collect the trophies. Somehow, Stede doesn’t believe any of that. A legend like Blackbeard doesn’t just fade into the shadows and diminish, no matter how badly his career ended.
A few other assistant coaches are setting up drills, and Stede allows himself to be herded through various warm-ups. He notices Coach Hands disappear up the stairs for a good while, possibly into the opaque viewing window above the field. Hands is absent long enough for Stede and his fellow hopefuls to earn a water break. Stede thinks about inquiring after Coach Blackbeard, about asking whether anyone has caught a glimpse of him yet, when Hands reappears to ruin the moment.
“Is this a beauty salon or a rugby field? Put down your water and line the fuck up. It’s time for tackle drills.”
Stede looks around, eyes searching for someone to pair up with. He isn’t new to the feeling of being left behind. He has innumerable memories of being the only boy in the schoolyard whose name wasn’t called. But to his surprise, a large man strides over. A very, very large man. In fact, he might be the largest one on the field. He has a tattoo on his neck; a neck is so thick, in fact, that the artist apparently had enough space to ink a life-sized steak knife. Stede spies Hands staring at them over the man’s massive shoulder, a small tilt to his mouth. Stede realizes then that he’s been set up.
“Are you Bonnet? I’m Colm. I guess we’re partners!” The man has such a kind smile that Stede can’t bring himself to be too angry about the obvious sabotage. Besides, what sort of rugby player would he be if he can’t take on men twice his size? Although, when he’d imagined his first time, it was usually with someone a bit smaller than this.
“Let’s have a go, then, shall we?” Stede cranes his neck to smile up at Colm bravely. “I shall try not to hit too hard!” Colm chuckles and pats his back. It’s a bit like being whacked by a polar bear, Stede thinks absently.
After putting in their mouthguards, they back up so there’s a good ten meters between them. Stede tries not to pay attention to the several pairs of eyes he can feel on his back. He bends his knees, falling into a sturdy crouch. He plants his feet, feeling the artificial grass beneath him.
Colm approaches at a slow jog, barely more than a fast walk, and Stede taps his own right shoulder to indicate what side he wants Colm to aim. Colm looks even larger like this, coming straight towards him, and the man quickly picks up a surprising amount of speed. Stede braces himself, then launches head first at Colm’s knees.
Stede tries to wrap his arms around the other man, attempts to get his fingers to meet around the back of his knees, but Colm is just too large and has too much momentum. Colm knocks right past him, his hip smashing into the side of Stede’s cheekbone. Stede ricochets off him and falls flat on his back onto the hard turf. So much for his first tackle.
Through the ringing in his ears he makes out the sound of laughter, but Colm is right back in front of him, holding out a hand. “You ok, Bonnet?”
Stede struggles up to his feet. “Just fine, Colm! Let’s go again, left shoulder this time!”
The tackling drill lasts another thirty minutes, with Stede and Colm switching sides every few tries. It doesn’t matter if Stede is the one tackling or the one being tackled, it always results in him belly up, staring at the ceiling. It’s an agonizing exercise in humiliation and futility. Stede’s entire body throbs painfully, as if he’d been flattened by a bus, but it hardly registers when compared to the whispered side conversations he hears nearby. Face burning with embarrassment, he tries his best to continue anyway. Stede promises himself a good long cry in the shower later, if he can just get through the rest of the day.
Mercifully, they move onto mauling and rucking drills - it’s still pushing and shoving, but with less momentum. While Stede is equally hopeless in these areas, at least his failure is less visible.
By the time the players are dismissed for lunch, Stede is drenched in sweat, skin rubbed raw from falling on the rough turf, and he’s barely holding back tears. While he had hoped to spend the lunch break building camaraderie with his new potential teammates, he finds himself beating a hasty retreat to the privacy of his car. He resolves to collect himself.
Stede manages to choke down a sandwich, sets a timer to limit himself to a twenty minute cry session, vomits up the sandwich, has a little lie-down in the backseat, and attempts to eat a granola bar. The granola bar bravely stays in his stomach, and it is time to return to the arena.
The second half of the day does not go much better.
Stede chooses to follow the larger-bodied men to the north side of the arena, where the forwards will practice scrums. The smaller, faster athletes meet at the south to practice kicking, sprinting, and other less heroic maneuvers.
In Stede’s imagination, he would enter the closed mass of bodies that creates the scrum, squeezed in tight on either side by the players known as Props and Locks, their muscles supporting his body weight. His face would be so close to his teammates that they’d be breathing the same air, daylight scarcely able to pierce the canopy created by their circle. There’d be yelling, the other team pushing and shoving to get the ball with their feet, but Stede would be the one fast enough, strong enough, and clever enough to cradle the ball with his boot and shove it out behind him to the waiting arms of the scrum-half (and it was only natural to imagine Edward Teach as the scrum-half, as he’d been the most successful one in history).
What actually happens is this: Colm and Jonah wrap their arms over Stede’s shoulders, their sweat sticking to his custom pink jersey. Two more men link arms behind his rear end, shoving the bony knobs of their shoulders brutally into the meat of his glutes. Those two are locked into place by flankers on either side, leaving no room to wiggle or get away, while a final eighth man shoves them all unceasingly forward.
There’s nowhere to go, however, because directly across from Stede is the exact same formation of eight more men, pushing in the opposite direction. It’s like a bizarre reverse version of tug-of-war, each side trying to push the other away from them.
Sted’s nose is crushed on his opponent’s solar plexus so tightly that he cannot breathe; his mouth feels clogged with spit behind the mouthguard, and somehow his feet leave the ground completely. Stede scrabbles for the turf underneath him, but can’t gain any traction. His nose slips upward in the sweat of the other man until his trachea is trapped against his opponent’s collarbone. He is stuck, suffocating, afraid that he will die crushed like mint leaves in a badly made mojito.
Suddenly, Colm and Jonah’s firm shoulders disappear and Stede is dropped to the ground, crumpled like a discarded puppet. The opposing side of the scrum has not disappeared, however, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight as they trample over him.
“Roll out of the way, you idiot!” he hears someone shout, but Stede can’t move. His ears are ringing, and both left and right sides of him are trapped by bodies violently pushing and shoving.
A pair of men are rucking directly over him, their heads locked together like two rams fighting for dominance, and the larger one’s boot stomps directly into Stede’s gut. It feels like being stabbed, as if the boot has gone right through him and into the turf, pinning him like a bug.
The boot releases him, and Stede reflexively curls into a ball, decides maybe he is a bug after all; a little pill bug, who would like to roll safely away. Instead, Stede glances up at the player who crushed his intestines, now holding up the ball victoriously.
“Did you mean to do that?” Stede gasps, before fainting.
*-*
Ed’s tapping his pen on the hardwood desk, trying desperately to keep his eyes open. It’s only 6pm, but he feels exhausted from the lack of activity. The only thing he’s done all day is sit in this fancy viewing room, drink the bitter coffee that his workhorse of a Keurig keeps pumping out, and doom scroll on his phone. The only real human interaction he’s had all day is when Izzy clomps into the room every five fucking seconds, asking him questions and offering uninvited opinions about stupid bullshit.
The truth is, by now Ed doesn’t even need to watch the tryouts. He can just look at the player’s stats on the spreadsheet, create a team with the perfect blend of muscle and finesse, and take them to the playoffs. It’s like doing the Monday Sudoku puzzle - so easy a toddler could do it. Just plug in the right numbers and it’s done.
Sure, maybe this Francis guy that Izzy keeps going on about really does have a golden foot and will be able to score them some extra tries this season. But Ed has been around the block a few times, and he knows there’s always another golden foot coming down the pike. He’ll probably make an offer to the kid, because they do need a new kicker this season, but Ed isn’t going to get his hopes up that this year will be any different because of it.
What he hasn’t ever seen before, though, is that blonde man in the pink jersey. Stede Bonnet had looked so fancy, splashing onto the field with his perfect curls and matching socks; you’d have thought he wouldn’t last five minutes of try-outs before fleeing for his mansion or wherever the fuck guys like that flee to. And Ed is good at getting a read on people, especially potential players. He can figure them out from just a glance, be able to tell you who would fold under pressure and who could take them all the way to the World Cup. Usually, the flashier the jersey, the bigger the coward.
But then, Bonnet surprised him- not by being any good at rugby, of course- in fact, the man was probably the most abysmal rugby player that Ed had ever seen. But he hadn’t given up, was the thing. Bonnet had peeled that deceptively muscular frame up off the turf after every hit and completed every drill, even if he was the last one on the line to do so.
What on earth possessed a man like that to submit himself to a trial as humiliating as rugby tryouts? And at what, age 45? He wasn’t desperate for the money, from the looks of him. Why not something more leisurely, like golf or whatever the fuck?
Bonnet made no sense to Ed, but he sure did compel him.
Ed’s phone vibrates, pulling his focus away from the puzzle. The idiotic face of the league’s general manager appears on the screen, with his stupid ponytail and superior smirk on display. Ed considers sending it to voicemail until he remembers how that particular game of tag will end.
“Coach Teach!” Nigel’s pompous voice cries from the speaker. “How were tryouts? Do you have your list finished yet? Any diamonds in the proverbial gutter?”
Ed peers down at the paper in front of him, the names of hopeful men scrawled out in ink. “Yeah, one or two, I suppose.”
“Wonderful! I’m quite eager to see the crew you’ve assembled for us this year! Just send the names through email - I’ll have the president approve them just in case - but it’s just tradition, you understand. You have our full confidence - the team is all yours, of course!”
“Of course,” Ed echoes, “Gotta go now, long day, lots of analysis and stuff to do, talk to you later Nige!”
He hangs up before the nightmare of a conversation can continue. It’s not that he’s ever had a real reason to distrust the general manager; after all, they’ve thrown him all the money and equipment he could ever dream of. And it’s true, they’ve never rejected a single player he’s ever chosen. But it’s the implication that gets to Ed.
Even though he is Head Coach and technically in charge of the entire team, he knows he’s only in power as long as the general manager, president, and CEO allow him to be. Step one foot out of line, and they have the ability to fire him in an instant. Sure, they’d pay for it dearly in the PR disaster that would be sure to follow; having the legendary Edward Teach as head coach is what puts arses in seats and money in their pockets. But the higher ups never let him forget that Ed is only the coach because they allow it. And Ed isn’t quite ready to see exactly how far their indulgence stretches. He remembers what it was like after Japan, after his injury, and how lonely it felt without a team. He honestly isn’t sure he could survive it again.
Ed stands up to stretch and shake away the melancholy that always comes with talking to Nigel Badminton. His knee buckles as he steps away from his desk, and he lets out a curse. Sitting all day is always harder on his knee than even the toughest of rugby drills ever was; he realizes he’s going to have a real shitty time tonight as he rubs his knee to soothe the ache.
Luckily, the practice building has a sports medicine room with rolls of kinesiology tape stashed inside it, along with some heavy duty ibuprofen. Ed limps his way down the stairs, through the hallway that separates the field from the admin and medical offices. The arena is dark and quiet now that try-outs are over and everyone has left, and so Ed is surprised to hear muffled sobs coming from inside the physio room.
It’s the fancy man, Stede Bonnet. And he’s standing in the dark, the back of his hand pressed against a bloody nose, trying to stifle his cries.
Before Ed knows it, his feet are taking him through the door and he’s wrapping an arm around Bonnet.
“Hey there, mate, what’s all this now?” Ed’s voice is soft and gentle in a way he’s never heard himself speak before. “It’s okay, just a bit of blood, isn’t it? I know the therapist keeps some tissues around here somewhere, let me see.” Ed guides Stede’s broad frame over to the massage table, patting his shoulder softly.
He finds the tissues and presses them up into Stede’s face. His other hand grasps Stede’s, guides it to hold pressure on the blood. “There now, you’re alright. Just sit there for a moment, nosebleeds are annoying but they don’t last forever, hmm?”
Stede’s shoulders heave, a muffled exhale leaving his body in a gust. “Thank you,” he mumbles, and his voice is lovely and high, if a bit nasally from clutching his nose. “You’re being terribly kind to me, I’m so sorry. I know the building’s closed, I just-“ and Bonnet starts to cry again.
Ed sits on the low table next to him, their thighs pressed close, and lets him cry it out. It’s not like he was in a hurry to get home anyway.
After a while, Stede gets his breathing under control and gingerly pulls the bloody tissue away from his face. “Is it finished?” he asks Ed tremulously.
“Yeah man! Looks like your blood is staying inside you for now, where it belongs.” He offers Stede a smile. “I’m Ed, by the way.”
“Stede Bonnet,” the fancy man says. He starts to hold out a bloody hand, thinks better of it, and instead does a silly little wave. Ed beams at him, until he sees the recognition take hold. “Oh my word, you’re Edward Teach! The head coach! Oh, you must think I’m an idiot, I can’t believe I just cried all over three time world champion Edward Teach!”
“To be fair, you bled all over me, too,” Ed jokes. He is reluctant to let Stede steer him back to being a rugby legend. It was nice, for a bit, to just be a guy who grabs tissues for someone who’s sad, to be able to give comfort instead of giving orders.
Stede giggles, “Yes, I suppose I did that too. You are quite brave, handling all that blood!”
“You were pretty brave today, too.” Ed bumps Stede’s shoulder, realizing they’re still sitting quite close.
“Don’t tease,” Stede frowns. “I know I was the worst man out there by a mile.”
“Nah, I saw you out there with the neck-tattoo guy- what was his name? Colin something? He’s like, the biggest fucker out here! And you chose him for your tackling partner? That’s hardcore!”
“His name’s Colm, and he’s actually quite sweet,” Stede defends. “Not like I did much with him anyway. I never even got him on the ground!”
“Yeah, but you went for it, made contact, right? Didn’t give up? Most guys take one look at a guy like Colm and run the other way. So, you’re already doing better than most.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Ed nudges Stede’s foot where it dangles off the massage table. He should probably hop off, give the man some space to collect himself, but Ed’s knee is still hurting and it feels good to let his feet hang loose off the edge. He swings them a bit, watching as Stede seems to unconsciously match the motion. They sit there for a bit, side by side.
“So what are you going to do now? Hide in the physio-therapy room for the rest of your life?”
“That does sound tempting.” Stede gestures to the room. “It’s got everything I need in here! But I suppose my wife and children would notice my absence eventually. Reality waits for no man, and all that.”
Somehow, a wife and children make even less sense in the puzzle that is Stede Bonnet. Ed feels a burning desire to figure it out, to solve the mystery. He wants to study this funny, paradoxical fancy man, put him under a microscope until he knows him inside and out. At the same time, though, Ed wants Stede far, far away from here; he’s going to get his dreams crushed if he keeps at this whole rugby thing, and it hurts to imagine his light dimming. Ed can’t imagine anything good coming of Stede pursuing a rugby career. “Seriously, man, I gotta know. What was the plan here? I mean, not that you didn’t do great today or anything-”
“Oh, Ed, I know I didn’t make the team, if that’s what you’re saying.” Stede sighs, and Ed feels both relief and disappointment at the admission. “I knew it was a foolhardy dream from the beginning, but I just had to try, didn’t I? It’s all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a boy. It’s just, after my father died, I realized - I’ve lived my entire life under his thumb. I’ve spent so much of it trying to please a man who would never be satisfied. I did everything he ever wanted; I got the house, the wife, the job, I had the children and the club memberships, but what for? I thought I was being brave, having a stiff upper lip and sacrificing my happiness for the family legacy. But I don’t think I was being brave at all, actually. In fact, I think it was quite cowardly.”
Stede tosses the ball of tissues towards the wastebasket, missing it by a good foot. “Anyway, I’m sorry for going on about my selfish desires. I just thought I might find a kindred spirit in you, perhaps. You surely must know what it’s like to live life on your own terms, right? I’ve followed your career; you’ve defied expectations since you were twenty!”
Ed hums a bit, thinking it over. Shouldn’t he be agreeing? After all, Ed had been on top of the sports world for over two decades, broken every record there was to break. He’s got money, fame, and an entire American sports league at his beck and call. Why, then, does it feel like he’s the one still under someone’s thumb, and Stede is the one who’s free?
“Okay,” he says slowly, “you gotta live your own life, I get it. Your old man kicked it, you can do what you want now, but why rugby? Why not, you know, something that doesn’t involve getting your nose broken? It’s pretty brutal, man, you could get really hurt.” He gestures at Stede’s face, where the blood has crusted over. “Worse than that.”
Stede rubs at his upper lip with the back of his sleeve in a sad attempt at cleaning up. “I suppose you’re right,” he says morosely, and Ed feels more of that odd disappointment. He wants Stede to give up, doesn’t he? He’d hate for Izzy to be right, and see Stede carried out of here on a stretcher after a tackle gone wrong… still, Ed was somehow hoping Stede would have a magic trick up his sleeve, that this dream of being brave, of going after what you want could actually happen.
“Rugby can be violent,” Stede continues, “and ruthless, and there’s an awful lot of sabotage and politicking, from what I’ve seen, but…” He straightens up, shakes the hangdog look off his face, and a smile blossoms like the sakura flowers on his jersey. “I don’t see why it has to be that way. Sports are always evolving, ever changing. It wasn’t so long ago that red cards were introduced for head contact! And besides safety, what about the rest? Remember when the All Blacks were called the Natives? Or when women couldn’t play? Change is inevitable, Ed. Nothing is certain. Perhaps the rugby world needs someone with a vision, someone to see it from a new perspective!”
Ed thinks about the general manager, the president, the CEO, the white men who sign his paychecks. He thinks about the brutal training regimens he was put through as a player, the chicken and broccoli diets and muscle tears he suffered silently. He thinks about how he was dropped as soon as he wasn’t profitable to the team anymore, and wonders what it’d be like if Stede had been on the team back then.
In another life, one where Ed gets everything he wants, Stede is right and a 45 year old rookie has what it takes to change the sports world. In that life, Ed asks Stede for a ride home, claiming his old knee injury is acting up too much for him to drive. They have a few drinks, Stede lets Ed be nice to him some more, and the hypothetical wife and children disappear along with Ed’s responsibilities as head coach. Stede miraculously becomes a star rugby player, and Ed coaches him all the way to winning America its first World Cup.
But in this life, the one where reality is in charge and tradition always wins, Ed pulls himself off the table with a groan and claps Stede on the shoulder.
“I hope you figure it out, Stede Bonnet. I really do.”
Ed limps out of the medical office, forces himself not to look back over his shoulder. Tells himself this is one puzzle he’s not going to solve, goes home, and emails the new roster to the general manager. A roster that does not include ridiculous golden-haired middle-aged men who don’t belong on a rugby field, and especially don’t belong in Ed Teach’s life.
-*-